Why does our shadow stretch longest when the sun sets?

Do we beckon the darkness?

Or does it call to us?

~~The First Poet after her second awakening

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“First-years sleep on the ground floor.” Moose rubbed his head, looking every bit the weary gambler. “That way,” he said, shooing Callam toward a staircase by the fireplace. “Crow’s foot, to be lucky as you...”

“Thanks,” Callam said, his pockets heavy with the night's winnings. The fire crackled loudly in the deserted common room, its dying embers a reminder of the time. Above, the occasional paperfowl hooted, nestled atop the cross beams supporting the ceiling.

One girl snored in a cozy chair.

Just a few more minutes and Callam would’ve joined her; he was dead tired, having stayed up in hopes of further strengthening his friendship with Moose and Lenora. Both had been a bit subdued since his victory—the giant lamenting his ill fortune, and Lenora lost in thought. True, she’d been the last to leave, and had shared a warm goodbye, but he’d have sworn there was more she’d wanted to say.

Callam didn’t know what to make of that.

Dragging himself to the staircase, he wound his way down the spiraling steps, feet heavy. Before him, a line of private suites stretched the length of the corridor, each labeled after Port Cardica’s most powerful families. Warm air from the cracks in the doors tickled his skin as he walked on by, entering instead a room titled “Journeymen.” Here, humble bunks were stacked three tall throughout the quarters—privacy, it seemed, was still a luxury he could not afford.

He didn’t really mind.

The gentle rise and fall of sleeping boys filled his ears as he searched for an empty cot and sat down. There was safety in that rhythm. It was familiar in a world of grand, new experiences. Common, like him. With a sigh, he took in all the features of his shared space: his wooden bunk, scratched up from years of use, the slightly damp smell of mildew and dirt that seemed to permeate every stone, and the fresh bedding beneath him, firm, yet with enough give to be comfortable.

Compared to straw, it felt like heaven.

Like home.

With that realization, a weight he’d carried throughout his life lifted. It was a burden borne by every orphan, a secret never uttered for fear it might come true. It was that bottomless hole within those forced to lie and cheat, for survival demanded the sacrifice of their self worth. His ache was so deep and personal, he found true strength simply in admitting it.

I feared I’d never belong.

And yet here he was. In the tower—with his first chapter unlocked. Yes, he had challenges ahead: he’d need to protect himself from the elders, master new spells, and unravel the secrets to his Seedling and his mother’s plight. But in the shadow of tonight’s accomplishments those felt like small matters. Today, he’d fulfilled an unspoken wish.

He’d made actual friends.

Callam sat in silence for a long while, gripped by a deep sense of… gratitude.

Then he quietly began to withdraw his possessions from his bookbag. First, he pulled out his purse, the bracelet his sister had gifted him, and his shiv. He tucked these under his pillow. The set of robes—straight from Gilded Robes and Garments—and the stationery Nahnie had bought him, he pushed into a nook near his bed. That done, he changed into his spare, ratty shirt.

Only after slipping under the quilt did he take out his grimoire and clutch it by his side. The room was crowded, and it didn’t take a thief to know treasures were best kept close to the heart.

When sleep finally came, it was a restless one, filled with anticipation and anxiety. Visions of Rote’s stretched face singing a grimtale, Sebastian’s sniggers, and Lenora’s sweet smile all turned into a stampede of feet as morning arrived.

Blankets were thrown. A lightning spell crackled.

“Poet’s hand,” someone yawned, “but it’s early!” “Feel like a Ruddite at work,” another complained.

Callam groaned in exhaustion. He wasn’t alone; at least three others looked as he felt—likely they too were suffering from spell backlash. Dressing was a slow torture, and he almost fell into another bunk while trying to pull on his pants. Packing went even worse. When he bent over, a sharp pain shot through his back, and he strongly considered going back to sleep.

Shouldn’t my recovery improve with each cast? some dulled part of his mind wondered.

It seemed unusual that he hadn’t. When walking across the dormitory failed to loosen him up, he began to anxiously rub the Seedling’s scar. If my body always react—

He stopped. His pulse quickened.

“Sorry!” said a short Seeker after nearly knocking him over. “Sorry!”

Callam paid the tomebound no mind. Instead he spun, his face set in a frown. Hopefully it looked like he’d forgotten something—hopefully no one noticed the light emanating from his finger.

With a few panicked strides, he returned to his bed and began to make it. Orderliness was not his strong suit, but he needed an excuse to glance at his hands without drawing attention.

Relief flooded through him a second later. The glow was indeed more bright than it had been the night before, but hardly eye-catching.

Unless it keeps getting brighter.

He swallowed, joy and fear mingling at the thought. For weeks now, he’d hoped his Seedling would do something—show any growth at all. Yet now that it had, it was proving hard to hide.

I’ll have to cover the scar somehow.

Dirt, maybe? Looking around, he cursed the stone floors. Pockets? No, I’ll need my hands free in class.

He settled on a makeshift bandage. As soon as he was certain he wasn’t being watched, he ripped up the hem of his worn shirt and tied it tight around his finger. If anyone asked, he’d tell them he was a poor hand with a knife.

Satisfied, he headed for the door.

Two Seekers were waiting for him. One tall and brunette, one chubby and blond. Distinct nose bridges marked them as relatives.

“Quill?” the larger one inquired.

“Who’s asking?” He furrowed his brow. These boys seemed friendly, but he’d been tricked before.

“I’m Elden. This is Mica. Professor Bookswell sent us to grab you. He’s to share breakfast with you.” A flash of jealousy shot across the blond boy's features, so quick Callam almost missed it.

“Lead the way, then,” he said. Questions flooded his mind. Yet he did not ask them; silence bought more peace than curiosity. The Sister’s wooden switch had taught that lesson well.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

~~~

“What is written?” asked a broad man seated at a table in the corner of the commissary. His words were not a question, and he did not stand in greeting as Callam approached. White streaked his full beard, and the expression he wore was severe enough to put the Sisters’ scowls to shame. “You’re late.”

“I… pardon me.” Callam tried to ignore the looks he was receiving from Lenora and the handful of other seated tomebound. This man did not seem the type to tolerate excuses.

A muscled arm waved him to an open stool. “Sit. We’ve much to discuss, and you have forced me to begin anew.”

Callam complied, wincing at his body’s complaints. The smells of fried eggs, sweated onion, and his favorite sausage links teased his nose. He dared not reach for them.

“Headmaster Vale has informed you that our continent is at war. What he left for me to share was the state of our armies. Our forces are spent. Every day, we get word of new heretics, of growing monster hordes—even now, our enemies gain ground.”

The clinking of silverware on plates met his words. Seeing he had their attention, the professor continued, “It is the sworn duty of the Archivists down in the Roots to catalog mankind's knowledge and be a passive resource for our Scriptors. This year, those responsibilities have expanded. The Archivists have agreed, for the first time, to impart their wisdom with our top students as well. With our four-star tomebound.”

Pausing, he gave them a calculating look. Shouts and laughter in the distance spoke to an exciting morning for the rest of the student body. Professor Bookswell paid them no mind. His eyes found Callam and lingered. Lip curling, he said:

“Each Sunday, you all are to delve the Roots. Do not mistake me; this will not be the casual studying allowed to your peers. You are to work the excavation to exhaustion. Memorize the transcriptions. Learn the histories. What information the Archivists deign to impart, you will cherish and use practically. By semester’s end, Vale intends for you each to scale two to three floors farther than your class. You will not fail him, or me.”

“Sir, what should we study there?” asked a young-looking boy with glasses. To his left, an older girl nodded before biting into some toast.

“Everything.” Professor Bookswell stood, revealing the full extent of his stature. Here was a man built for command. Taking a stack of iron tokens from his bookbag, he handed them out. “These will let you into the Root’s lower levels.” Before leaving, he added, “Combat classes begin within the hour. Do not dally—wars are lost in the minutes spent waiting for laggards.”

Callam didn’t need telling that the message was meant for him. He blinked, a lifetime’s worth of frustration at being spoken down to surfacing—surely he couldn’t be blamed for running late.

No one mentioned meeting for breakfast. And what’s this about combat class—

Wood scraping on stone interrupted his thoughts. “Should I have called a search party?” Lenora asked playfully, crossing her legs after taking a seat in the chair by his side. She shifted slightly, and her dark hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder—she’d chosen a green, sleeveless dress for the occasion. Face now hidden, she mouthed, “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” he shot back.

“That part’s obvious,” drawled an older student across the table. Black robes hugged her figure, and her bookbag seemed far more fashionable than practical. “Whispering works best when around people who don’t have advanced magic.”

Callam blanched. Thankfully the newcomer returned to her food without saying anything more.

“We’ll talk after,” he told Lenora, then half-heartedly served himself some eggs. Spearing one, he took a bite. Normally, he would have taken the professor’s comments in stride, but this was to be his home, and he’d been ridiculed enough in his life to know how much making a good first impression mattered.

Mouth souring, he pushed his plate away. It truly was as the stanzas warned, “The mirrors in every eye reflect what others decide.” For the first time ever, he had very little appetite.

“... so?” Lenora pried a few minutes later once they’d left the commissary for the castle’s winding hallways. She’d stayed quiet throughout their meal, tossing him the occasional glance of support.

“I was never told,” he answered sincerely, stopping to allow a torrent of students to pass. Space from the exchange had helped him clear his head.

“Told?” Lenora hugged her satchel, trying not to get caught in the crowd. “I thought you checked your tome last night?”

“I did…” Yet even as he said it, he began to feel stupid. He swung his bag onto his torso, pulled out his book, and thumbed it open. Reading chapter one brought back his confidence… until he flipped the page.

His heart fell. How did I miss my schedule?

Lenora’s face softened into a playful smile. “You’re plenty clever.” She tapped the side of her button nose. “Details do make the man, though.”

“Well,” Callam said after a bit. The sound of their footsteps carried through a giant room covered in vines and littered with orphaned columns—Lenora, at least, seemed to know where they were going. “I’ve been the fool before.” Hoping to change the subject, he added, “Didn’t Rote mention we’d be indoors today?”

“We are. Professor Bookswell called this class ‘combat training,’ but Moose warned it's closer to conditioning. Brutal, apparently…” She trailed off as they reached a line of first-years queuing around a pair of locked doors. Few among them appeared as sore as Callam felt; the majority lounged and chatted animatedly. One girl seemed to have rudimentary control over feathers and had made a game of stacking her quills nib to nib.

I hope we won’t have to wait long. The way Lenora kept rearranging the things in her bag—the soft rustling of parchment and the faint clink of glass vials—made it clear that she too was anxious for class to start.

It was a relief, then, when the doors swung open, leading them into a long, musty chamber. Beams of light lanced down from a skylight, dousing parts of the room in gold and illuminating dust motes that danced along the slate floor. Mats and carpets had been piled in a corner, where they now lay forgotten. To Callam, it very much looked like the entire space had been sealed off for the better part of a year.

A nearby student sneezed, then sneezed again.

“Order yourselves from left to right, by star level,” read a solitary sign, standing out like a roadside waystone.

A shuffling of feet later, and they’d complied. Three other Seekers wielded four-star grimoires— all foreign students Callam recognized from breakfast—but before Lenora could introduce them, their teacher made herself known. In a whisper of fabric she jumped down from the ceiling, landing in a crouch. Red ribbons came loose from her robe and billowed around her, catching the light as they swirled gracefully.

It was a tad much, but the thief in Callam could certainly appreciate style.

“Scripture speaks of the power of words, yet little thought is given to toning the body,” the professor said, gathering herself and leading them to the back of the room. Little cracks appeared where she walked, only to quickly close up again. “Whom among you feels pressure around your chest? Backlash from your spells?”

A chorus of “here!” echoed off the walls.

“Today, we fix that.” She grinned, and a shiver ran down Callam’s back. Merra had smiled like that once, when he’d first joined the Sootskins. The witch had run him for miles, left him in the ocean without a boat or buoy, and handed him stolen goods before calling the guards—all under the guise of “training.” Even years later, he could still feel the burn in his legs.

Now, Merra’s smile seemed sweet by comparison.

“But first, we must cover the basics,” their teacher continued, spinning gracefully to walk backward. “Do any of you know the reason why Ruddites are not allowed in the Tower? You!” she pointed to a tiny girl, her hand raised and nose buried in a scroll.

“The unbounded body cannot handle mana density,” the girl murmured.

“Close. The truth is, given ample potions, even Ruddites can climb the Tower. What they cannot do is expel mana buildup. Oh, they’d survive a while here, especially the hardy ones,” the professor explained, noting their incredulous looks. “But without a means to cast, they will die. Any guesses as to... yes?”

This time, Lenora had raised her hand, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Is it perhaps a case of too much of a good thing?” she mused. “Mana makes everything easier—breathing, walking, all the little things—until the body becomes so dependent on it that it can’t function alone. That’s all well and good for us, but without a way to release spent mana, Ruddites become overfull. They’ve no space left to absorb more.”

“Succinctly put.” Coming to a stop in front of a circular stone set into the ground, the professor shook her head, her expression distant. “The body rarely knows what is good for it. It craves mana—needs it. But just as breathing too quickly leads to collapse, so too will absorbing mana without a means to flush the system lead to death. Ruddites will draw from the well here until they burst.”

“Why then, do I feel so weary after...?” asked one of the foreign four-star tomebound, his bushy brow furrowed. “Sorry, uh,” he fumbled for the right word. “Menjalsa? Spell-having?” The dark rings under his eyes hinted he was as tired as Callam felt.

“Casting,” the professor corrected, her demeanor shifting back to its earlier intensity. With a stomp on the circle, she caused a series of narrow steps to erupt from the ground along the room’s perimeter. A rumble spread from where she stood, shifting the stone as it reverberated up to the ceiling—a breath later, dust cascaded from above as stalactites shot down, forming all sorts of obstacles.

“You’re tired because your magic is strong, but you aren’t,” she explained. “Expelling mana might save the body, but it leaves a void, and until that void is filled, you’ll feel ill. There is only one solution we’ve found to improve recovery.” She flashed the whites of her teeth. “Conditioning. Conditioning a lot.”

~~~ Heads up, i've been having ocular migraines all week. Currently seeking treatment and doing my best to dictate my chapters.